


Ice Within, Ice Without

by Loudest_Voice



Series: MCU One-shots [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate History, Depression, Gen, M/M, Mention of Natasha, Protests, Road Trips, Warnings at Endnotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers tortures himself while looking for Bucky, Sam Wilson is not a miracle working psychotherapist, and the asset delivers a present and a note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Within, Ice Without

**Author's Note:**

> Direct-ish sequel to [this oneshot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5024386). Set some amorphous time before Age of Ultron. I debated whether this is general or a straight up pairing fic, so I just labeled it with both. There's no explicit talk of romance or even romantic feelings, though. If someone feels like the pairing label is misused . . . they're probably right.
> 
> Warnings for possible triggers at endnotes.

If not for a bone-deep sense of obligation to the body that science and desperation gave him, Steve Rogers would’ve long since walked into the largest body of freezing water he could find. Suicide, in addition to being a sin, spat in the face of what little dignity Steve had left. Pretending that walking into ice, where his body would be frozen in a pseudo-death, would be less of a surrender relied on a pedestal of weak semantics that the old Steve would have gagged at, but the old Steve had died with . . .

“I can’t give up on him again,” he told Sam, wishing he could either makes use of his new friend’s support without guilt, or work up the fortitude to push him away. Sam had a life to get back to, a life with family, friends, and people who needed and deserved him more than Steve.

“I’m not asking you to,” said Sam. “But there has to be a healthy balance between ‘giving up on him’ and ‘dedicating every waking second of your life to chasing his shadow’.”

Steve sighed but said nothing. Out of respect, he didn’t look away from Sam’s dark eyes.

“Listen,” continued Sam, his shoulders sagging. “That new guy said something about Hydra remnant bases left back in DC. It’s as good a place as any to visit next.”

Steve bet that Sam just wanted a chance to see his family and friends, but he wasn’t wrong. The search for Bucky was going less than well. They jumped from base to base, going on the terrified wails of random Hydra operatives left out in the wind after the fall of Hydra/Shield, finding nothing besides old files and thumb drives that chipped away at Steve until he worried that only his bones would be left.

“Yeah, let’s head back to DC,” he said. With any luck, Sam would grow tired of Steve’s moping on the way there and stay home, where he could do good.

Against Sam’s advice, Steve perused the files they’d retrieved from Hydra whenever he wasn’t driving. Sleeping eluded him most nights and if Sam insisted on refusing Steve’s offers to handle most of the driving, then the least he could do was scour the reports for any clue that had been obscured by details.

“Punishing yourself like this isn’t productive, you know?”

It wasn’t about productivity. Not all the time. In March 15th of 1997, a promising neuroscientist fascinated with “neuroplasticity” had inflicted “targeted damage” to specific areas of Bucky’s brain to evaluate “the effects of repeated trauma on innate personality”. That only happened because of Steve. He had a duty to know it.

He’d googled “neuroplasticity” at one point and ended up in a website asking for donations to help veterans who’d suffered severe brain trauma in the Iraq War. Sam had found him vomiting into the motel room toilet.

“I’m fine,” he’d said, hating himself for not being able to keep it together even with the knowledge that somewhere, despite it all, Bucky lived and breathed.

Three days and gallons of coffee later, they were stuck in one of DC’s highways. At one point, a cluster of protesters passed them by screaming about Shield’s duplicity. A stout girl with a Georgetown sweatshirt carried a sign demanding that the Winter Soldier be brought to justice.

“What the hell does she mean?” Steve demanded, moving to get out of the car.

“Calm _down_.” Sam pushed him back on the seat and honked in frustration. Or perhaps warning. Steve settled back, noticed the car ahead giving them the finger, and heard Sam sighing onto the steering wheel. “Trust me, you are _not_ equipped for an argument with a self-righteous college student.”

“What did she mean?” repeated Steve. He ought to be looking at the signs for Bucky’s name but like most things lately, facing the task filled him with dread.

“She could mean anything,” said Sam. “The JFK assassination, all the shit in the Middle East, the Twin Towers--”

“Bucky had nothing to do with that!”

“Not according to the files Natasha uploaded.”

Natasha’s files. Another thing Steve couldn’t face, though at least he had the excuse of needing to scrutinize every little dot and vowel in the papers they ripped from Hydra’s dying claws. Somehow, it was easier to learn the details of the horrific torture Bucky had endured, at least when compared to reading methodical reports about all the murders ‘the asset’ had executed. Women. Children. Elderly. In a few gory occasions, the asset had been ordered to make the death slow and painful to send a message.

More than once, a scientist noted that the asset had begged to be put back in the ice. Every time, it’d triggered another ‘recalibration’.

As expected, Sam told Steve that he has some errands to run the moment they managed to park the rusted wagon they’d picked up somewhere in one of the states brimming with corn. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” he’d said in front of the hotel. “Just, try to sleep tonight, alright?”

Steve nodded and wished Sam were a little less honest. He resolved to stay in the cheap motel all night, laying on the bed with his eyes closed, because it was the least he owed Sam. Tomorrow, Steve should tell him to stay, to let Steve keep hunting shadows alone. No one who followed him met a good end.

As expected, Steve didn’t fall asleep. Around three in the morning, with the city bathed only in the dim glow of streetlights, he heard a faint scratching sound coming from his lonely window. If not for his insomnia, Steve would’ve probably dismissed it as the rattle of the wind or scurrying rats, but he welcomed the excuse to get out of bed. And when he looked towards the window, the outline of broad shoulders and a baseball hat crashed against his serum-enhanced retina.

Steve jumped to his feet, heartbeat in his throat. He ran to the window, mentally screaming at himself not to get his hopes up no matter how swiftly and silently the figure moved. He was outside in an instant, pushing his enhanced muscles to the limit as he jumped from roof to roof, gaze fixed on a figure that slid from shadow to shadow like liquid. Whoever he was (it could only be one person, dear God), Steve refused to let him slip away.

The chase shifted from fast to erratic as the figure approached a more crowded area of DC. The lights from bars, clubs, and all-night restaurants did nothing to help Steve find the generic baseball cap among a sea of anonymous drifters and bored college fratboys. He almost choked with frustration the fifth time he interrupted a random man in a dark sweater.

“Jesus, back the fuck off,” the guy shouted when Steve seemed frozen with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

Steve went back to his motel, managing to get lost on the way twice, his mind submerged in ice despite the tepid weather. He couldn’t do much besides fight, could he? A lifetime as a mouse in a rage, and he hadn’t bothered to learn about stealth, to note the tricks of vanishing in a crowd. He’d considered it a point of pride, but lately he wondered if it hadn’t been the start of the habit that led him to use and disregard Bucky with nothing more than useless tears and regret.

Out of habit, he examined his motel window after finally getting back, the light of the rising sun aiding his effort. He didn’t expect to find much and almost fell off the roof like an idiot when he spotted a plastic blue . . . nozzle of some sort laying next to the windowpane. Under it laid a piece of paper with blocky handwriting Steve could’ve picked out a pile of millions of letters.

_I don’t know if you still got bad lungs, probably not. But this is supposed to help. Stay out of the cold._

There was no signature.

Steve sighed, suddenly feeling like the early morning air wasn’t quite as lukewarm as he first thought. He cradled the note without paying much attention to the blue plastic and slid back inside the apartment, eager to talk to Sam.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Steve is depressed and vaguely suicidal and doesn't have the best thoughts about himself because of it. If you don't feel like reading about those kinds of feelings, it's probably best to skip this one. Um, it kinda ends on a happy note?
> 
> Also, my personal blog [is here](http://dynamicallyopposed.blogspot.com/). I have some original fiction there, but it's mostly rambling about the physiological minutia I find fascinating.


End file.
